And All the Things I've Come to Be
by sergeantmicky
Summary: A bunch of unconnected drabbles focusing on Dean and Sam's lives and relationship at different points between seasons 1-4. Lots of angst, sick! and hurt!Dean, bigbro! and protective!Sam, and a bit of h/c now and then.
1. Chapter 1

**So, hi! I haven't written for Supernatural in about... eight years. Holy cow. I haven't been watching it either, since season 5. I thought I'd never write for Supernatural again, but recently I've been re-watching seasons 1-3 and after all this time... here I am again. I don't think there's a single fictional character in all the world that I love more than Dean Winchester, and he's reminding me of that with every episode.  
**

 **These are just four drabbles that I wrote in the past couple of days. They're not connected in any way, just small ideas that Dean whispered in my ear, and I decided to write down. There's spoilers for seasons 1-3 if anybody hasn't seen them yet.**

 **I hope I can still write Dean and Sam. Yikes!**

 **x**

After Dad dies, Dean's hands always shake.

Sometimes it's obvious, to a point where he can't pour his coffee properly without spilling some on the counter, and sometimes it's barely there, just a light tremble, hardly visible if Sam wasn't looking for it.

He notices it especially when Dean is cleaning weapons, hears the metal parts click together unnaturally, sees his brother's forehead crease in frustration, lips pursed, jaw set against the emotion that forces his body to betray him. That emotion that is always simmering just below the surface these days. He's always so careful with their weapons. It's unlike him.

Sam rubs his forehead and watches his older brother suffer in silence, feels like there's a weight on his chest that just keeps getting heavier and heavier.

A few weeks after Dad's death, and Dean gets a bit banged up hunting. He's trying to get down some painkillers after, but his hands are shaking so bad he can't even open the child proof lid.

Sam watches his brother struggle for about a minute, trying to decide whether or not to intervene, before gently stilling Dean's hands with a quiet, "I got it", and taking the bottle.

Dean doesn't look at him, his eyes firmly fixed on the bottle, but Sam can see the faint quiver in his chin, the clenched jaw.

"Here." Sam empties two pills into Dean's outstretched palm, which is still trembling noticeably.

Once he has the pills, Dean snatches his hand back as if he was burned. "Thanks," he mutters quickly, avoiding Sam's gaze.

"Dean..." Sam begins, and Dean looks at him then, and his eyes are too shiny, but they are also hard and guarded, a brick wall that Sam does not dare try to force down.

"Sam," he says, through gritted teeth, his brother's name a clear warning – _Stop before I lose it. I'm barely keeping it together as it is._

Sam drops it, a sigh forcing its way through his body before he can stop it. He watches his brother shakily take the pills, his chin still quivering, avoiding looking at his own reflection in the mirror. He leans on the sink after with his head down, his body tense against all of the hurt, physical and emotional, and Sam wishes he could drop a hand on Dean's back to soothe that hard line, wishes he could rub his brother's shoulders, work out some of the tension.

But Dean is so far away from him right now, Sam's not sure he could reach him if he tried. So he rubs the back of his own neck, sighs out some of his own tension, and goes to bed.

X

"Food?"

"Damn straight."

Dean unlocks the car and they slide inside in unison, the doors following suit.

Sam takes out his phone, switches it on to check for messages, and a second later realizes that Dean isn't moving, isn't turning on the car. His subconscious mind immediately processes that something is wrong, and he looks up at his brother quickly, sees him staring out the windshield, jaw locked, his hand still resting on the key in the Impala's ignition.

Sam wordlessly follows his gaze, instantly picks out the two people walking down the sidewalk toward them. A tall man and a small boy, clearly father and son. The boy is maybe six and very blond, the man is tall and dark and bearded. The boy is carrying a catcher's mitt in one hand, and clinging to his father's hand with the other. Even through the Impala's closed doors their laughter is loud and clear.

Sam's breath catches in his throat; he swallows hard, glances at his brother. Dean is looking straight ahead, his gaze following the man and his son, his jaw clenched, not even blinking.

Sam looks back at them as they get closer, watches them exchange adoring glances, smiles, and his eyes burn, somewhere way back, somewhere where his body still remembers how to cry, and he thinks maybe he does have tears left.

 _Huh. Who knew._

He turns to look at Dean again; his head is turned toward Sam enough now that he can see his brother's eyes. The agony and longing in the green depths physically takes his breath away, makes Sam feel so inadequate in its presence that he has to turn his head, shaken, knowing he was never meant to see that.

The man and boy walk past the car, and the brothers sit in silence. Dean is looking straight ahead again, quiet enough for Sam to hear his pained, irregular breathing, feel how hard he's trying to keep it together. Sam looks at his brother, his strong, invincible ( _I used to think he was, anyway)_ brother, watches his long eyelashes tremble over eyes dark with bitter pain, his teeth clench against the emotion trying so desperately to get out. Dean's carefully constructed walls lay in ruin.

He reaches over blindly through his own blurred vision and squeezes Dean's shoulder, close to his neck, watches his brother's eyes fall shut for just a brief moment. Just for that moment he sees Dean allow the agony, the loss, to wash over him, long enough to send one wayward tear streaking down his cheek, leaving a dark stain on his blue jeans.

Sam blinks rapidly next to him, can't look at his brother anymore, can't look at his brother's agony, but he leaves his hand there and grips Dean's shoulder so tight, he's probably hurting him.

The silence in the car and their shared loss is so great, so deep; Sam thinks that John's absence is a massive, bottomless hole and every day they get sucked down into it a little further.

He stares, unseeing, at the road ahead and suddenly Dean moves, turns the key and the Impala roars to life, his shoulder hitching up ever so slightly, signalling an end to his moment of weakness, and Sam drops his hand.

Suddenly, he's not hungry anymore.

X

"Dude."

"What?"

"Go to sleep."

Muffled noise, maybe a whimper. "I can't." Dean sounds like he's five.

Sam rubs his forehead in the dark, sighs. _God, it's been a long couple of days._

"You want me to get you some painkillers? I think that drugstore's open 24 hours."

 _I knew I should've ignored him and just picked them up before we got back. 'Just' a sprained wrist, my ass._ Mentally he's already up and in the car, but Dean's quiet "No," brings him back to the dark room quickly.

"Huh?"

"I don't need them. Just a sprained wrist." It sounds like Dean's face is pressed into his pillow, but Sam can hear the almost imperceptible hitch of pain in his brother's breathing.

"If you can't sleep, you need them," Sam says, and swings his legs out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor.

Dean lifts his head in the dark, and his voice gets stronger. "No, Sam. I have the brace, that's good enough. Don't go."

Sam hesitates, tries to decide whether that " _don't go_ " was " _don't go get the pills_ " or " _don't leave me alone_ ". Considering how the past few days – _hell, weeks_ \- have been, Sam's pretty much banking on that it's the second one. He's suddenly not that tired anymore, and he tries to focus on Dean's face a few feet away, but his brother drops his head back into his pillow.

"Go to sleep, Sam. I'm fine."

"You're obviously not," Sam replies, keeping his tone light, but he pulls his legs back under the blankets.

"I'm good," Dean says.

"You're not," Sam huffs.

"I am."

There's the faintest trace of amusement in Dean's voice now, and Sam is beginning to think that Dean is enjoying this. He doesn't say anything for almost a minute, and Dean lifts his head again, just the slightest bit, as if checking if Sam's still awake.

"I'm fine, Sam."

 _So that's how it is._

Sam plays along. "You're not. What do you need?"

"Nothing. I need some sleep." He doesn't sound a bit sleepy.

Sam chews his lip in the dark. "You want me to tell you a story or something?" He's totally kidding, trying to keep up the game, but Dean's reply is unexpected.

"Like you've got any good stories." His tone is light, but suddenly, underneath, Sam hears something else. Something small and fragile and frightened, and he swallows hard. There's the shadow of something in the room with them suddenly, something unspoken and soul crushing. Something Sam has felt lingering off and on since Cold Oak.

 _I'm alright, Dean, I'm here. You brought me back. I'm not going anywhere. Not gonna leave you alone again._

"Shows what you know, jack ass." Sam rolls over on his stomach, turns his head towards his brother, loving the sound of his quiet laughter. "Did I ever tell you about the first time I met Jessica's parents?"

"Nope." Dean turns on his side towards him; Sam can hear the smile in his voice. He closes his eyes for a second, soaks in the comforting feeling of having his brother so close to him, alive and well. _For now._

It still hurts to talk about Jessica, two years later, but for Dean, he'll do anything. So he tells him, tells him as much as he can remember, all the little embarrassments, how Jessica's dad didn't like him at first, how he'd brought a strawberry cheesecake and nobody had eaten any cause Jessica's mom was allergic and he'd forgotten that, even though she'd _told_ him, everything he can think of.

There isn't much of a direction to his story, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. He laughs in all the right places, and makes fun of him in all the places that Sam knew he would, and groans in sympathy just where a brother should, and Sam can sense him relaxing, comforted, all the way from his own bed.

By the time he stops responding, and Sam hears his brother's deep, even breathing, he's completely run out of things to tell Dean about and is just rambling. He sits up in bed a little, studies Dean's silhouette in the dark, wonders why he doesn't tell Dean about this stuff more often, is suddenly overwhelmed by how much he hasn't told Dean about and he only has – _eleven months? Oh god, Dean, it's not enough time, I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.  
_

Now it's Sam that can't sleep.

X

"Dean, have you seen my black hoodie?"

Sam's tossing things out of his bag, frustrated.

"Your what?" Dean is lying on his bed and doesn't even look up, engrossed in a muscle car magazine Sam picked up for him at the gas station.

"My hoodie. My black hoodie. My black sweatshirt with the hood. I've looked for it everywhere. Where is it?" Sam lowers his head, waits for Dean to look at him. His brother's brow is furrowed and his lips are moving ever so slightly, totally entranced by some article. "Dean!"

"Huh? I don't have your sasquatch clothes, dude," Dean throws him an annoyed glance. "Maybe if you were more organized."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. "What? What? I'm sorry, did you say if _I_ was more organized?" Laughing mirthlessly, he covers the distance to Dean's bed in two strides and grabs his bag from beside the bed.

"Don't touch my stuff." Dean doesn't even look up from his magazine, but his voice drops a couple of octaves, straying into threatening territory.

Sam is not afraid. He jerks open the zipper on Dean's bag, huffs out a disbelieving laugh at the mass of unfolded clothes that meet his eyes. "I'm not organized? _I'm_ not? What the hell do you call yourself then, Dean?"

" _Really_ not organized," Dean replies, still not looking up. "I don't need to live in perfect cleanliness, dude, that's all you."

"I thought you said I wasn't organized," Sam snaps, but Dean appears to be done with the conversation, and doesn't even make a sound in reply. He's back to the cars.

Sam glares at the ceiling.

He wears his grey hoodie, the one that's not as warm, and he's grouchy.

Two days later, Dean comes out of the bathroom after his shower wearing a certain black hoodie that is way too big for him.

Sam huffs wordlessly at him for almost 30 seconds, and when Dean doesn't respond, "Dean. You said you didn't know where my black hoodie was. I've been looking for it."

Dean crosses his to bed, throws his shaving kit back into his bag, doesn't reply.

"Dean?" Sam stands with hands on hips, waiting for an excuse, irritation swelling in his chest.

"Huh?" Dean looks up at him, green eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. He looks like he didn't sleep all night. His hair is sticking up all over. He looks like he's twelve.

"My hoodie. You're wearing it." Sam raises his eyebrows.

"Oh. Sorry. I must've packed it in my bag last time." Dean shivers, stares down into his bag blankly. "Hang on, I'll grab something else."

He curls his fingers into the too-long sleeves, and Sam sighs, his irritation melting away as quickly as it came, replaced by sympathy.

"Forget it, Dean. It's okay. I don't need it back right now."

"'Kay."

Dean huddles in the passenger seat the rest of the day, looking small and young and miserable in Sam's sweatshirt, his hands disappearing into the sleeves, and Sam thinks about buying a new one and letting Dean keep it.

X

 **That's it for now. Thanks so much for reading! Please leave me a review on your way out and let me know what you thought! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again! Just wanna say a quick thanks to everyone who read the last chapter! Thanks for still being interested in my little ramblings, it means a lot. :)**

 **Here's another 3 (long) drabbles - the first is set pre-season 1 and features a bit of hurt!Dean and worried!Sam. The second is set during late season 3 and it's a bit angsty, just a warning. The third one is set whenever, and it's got hurt AND sick!Dean (I have a problem) and bigbro!Sam. None of them are connected in any way, I hope it isn't confusing.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 **x**

"Sam! _Sam!"_

Jessica's shout brings him crashing into reality. He sits bolt upright in bed, panting. The room is dark but familiar. His room, Stanford.

 _Safe. Home._

He swipes a hand over his face, realizes he's sweating. He can't get his breathing under control.

"Sam, are you okay?"

He jumps, had actually forgot Jessica was in the room with him. In the dark he can just see her silhouette, familiar curly hair and slim shoulders.

"Um, uh. Yeah, I think so." He tries to focus on something in the room, bring himself fully back to reality. The dream is still lurking in his subconscious, still feels very real. Even if it wasn't real, a very real fear is still clutching his heart.

"You were making such a weird noise. Like, growling, almost." She shivers, leans over to turn on the light, and its dim glow gives him the visibility he needs to calm down a bit more. He focuses on the bookshelf, the computer, the door.

 _Breathe._

"Are you sure you're okay, Sam?" Jessica is sitting next to him with the covers pulled over her knees, she is wide-eyed and looks shaken. He's too shaken himself to feel bad for scaring her.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I just had a nightmare." He breathes deep, looks out the window at the dark street.

 _Breathe. You're home. It's all good. But -_

"About what? You want to talk about it?" Her voice is soft but still encroaches on his thoughts.

"Uh." He runs a hand through his hair, tries to focus. Can't shake the dream. "Uh, it was about my brother. Uh, I think I need to call him." He gets up quickly, shoving the sheets off his legs impatiently, and scoops his phone off the nightstand.

"What?" Jessica gets up on her knees, as though about to stop him. She's looking at him like he's crazy. "It's 3 in the morning, Sam. You can't call him now."

Sam shakes his head, flips open his phone anyway. "It doesn't matter. I think he might be in trouble."

"In trouble? What are you talking about?" Jessica looks confused, and then her face softens. "Sam... it was just a nightmare. Come on, come sit and tell me about it."

He hesitates, finger hovering over the scroll button. He's still breathing hard, heart pounding.

 _Dean, his chest slick with blood, whimpering, on the ground, calling for –_

"Sam." Jessica's voice cuts through his re-living of the dream again. "Just calm down for a second, okay? At least come sit."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Sam sits back down on the bed, shifts so his back is against the headboard. His phone is still clenched in his hand.

"So?" Jessica sits close to him, her knee brushing his. "What was it about? Did something happen to your brother?"

Sam nods, biting his lip. "Yeah. He was hurt. But you're right, yeah. It was just a nightmare."

 _Dean's fine, he's with Dad, remember?_

"Okay." Jessica puts her hand on his cheek, her skin soft and fragrant. "You can call him tomorrow, right? Or maybe you won't need to. Nightmares are always less scary in the daylight." She kisses his cheek, and Sam finds a smile.

"Yeah, you're right." _I'll have forgotten about it by morning._

But he doesn't.

If anything, the feeling that something is wrong is only stronger in the morning. He doesn't wake up until 7:30, with an 8 o' clock class to get to, and he spends precious minutes standing by the bed with his phone in his hand, Dean's number selected, fighting with himself.

 _Just call him. He'll be up by now, Dad never let us sleep late._

 _No. He's fine. And let's be honest, he probably won't be too happy to hear from you. Especially over something this dumb. How is that conversation gonna go? 'Hey Dean, I had a dream that you got hurt. Are you okay?' Sure. He won't laugh in my face over that one at all._

He flips his phone shut, sighing, and goes to class.

At 11:30, when class is finished, he almost calls Dean again, but Zack and some other friends show up and he ends up going for lunch. After that, he has another class, and he's not free until 4 o'clock in the afternoon. By that point, the fact that he's _still_ thinking about this damn dream is really starting to bother him.

He gets back to his empty house, picks up an apple off the table, flips open his phone and scrolls down to Dean's number.

He hasn't called it once. Not in eight months. Not since he got here. He hesitates, sliding his thumb over the 'call' button, then presses it. It rings two, three times and then is picked up.

"Hello?" Dean's voice is rough, it sounds like he just woke up.

Sam feels a rush of relief. _He's okay. Sleeping pretty late, but okay._

"Hey," he says, wonders how he's gonna explain his reason for calling without sounding like an idiot.

"Sam?" Dean sounds surprised, and then his voice gets a little higher, worried. "Are you okay?" There's something other than worry in his voice, too, but Sam can't put his finger on it.

"Yeah, yeah," he says quickly, rolling the apple up and down his thigh. "I was just gonna ask you the same thing." He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. Here they are both asking each other if they're okay and they're both fine, and they haven't spoken in eight months and -

"Me?" Dean starts to laugh too, and then there's a funny sound, like a little squeak, and he stops. "I'm always okay," he finishes after a second, but his voice is different now, it sounds strained. There's a rustling sound in the back, clothes moving maybe, or blankets.

Sam can hear him breathing, determinedly deep, and narrows his eyes, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm peachy. Sam, why did you call?" He says it all in one breath, fast, and then Sam hears him breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth, hard.

 _Dean is in pain._ He knows it, as sure as he knows his own name.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

"Why did you call?"

"Are you hurt?" Sam is sitting forward in his chair now, the apple forgotten on the table. There's silence on the other end of the phone, and he clenches his teeth, looks at the ceiling. "Dean?"

"Why did you call?"

Dean's voice is low, Sam can't read it, can't tell what he's thinking. It bothers him.

"Because. Because I had a... I had a dream. That you were hurt, and I... I got worried." He's annoyed that Dean managed to pull it out of him, even though he hadn't had a good plan coming into this conversation anyway.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Dean lets out his breath. "Huh."

He sounds slightly amused, and surprised, and Sam looks at the ceiling again, waiting, but Dean doesn't say anything else.

"Dean. Are you hurt?"

"I got a bit banged up last night, but I'm good," Dean says quickly, dismissively. "I'm a trooper."

The worry that has been lurking in his stomach all day starts to climb, easing towards his throat, tightening muscles as it goes. _I knew it._ "What happened?"

"Nothing, I'm fine. Just a couple of broken ribs. Nothing I can't handle." Dean's tone is flippant, but Sam knows his brother too well to be tricked by it.

"Where's Dad?"

"Out." Dean's voice is getting lower now, and quieter, like all the talking is wearing him out.

"You're hurt and he left you alone?" Sam shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. "I don't understand him, I –"

"I'm freaking twenty-five, Sam."

"I don't care, Dean, that's not the point –"

"Sam?" Dean's voice breaks, just the tiniest bit, but it shuts Sam up instantly.

"Yeah, Dean." Sam focuses on the sink, watches water drip from the faucet slowly and steadily. He can hear his brother's breathing, faster now, hitching slightly every time he takes air in.

"Are you coming back?" Soft, hope and vulnerability laced throughout each word.

"No. Of course not, Dean." It comes out fast, and more annoyed than he'd intended, but it's done. Dean is silent. Sam's heart sinks a little further.

"Okay. Anyway, nice to hear from you." Any trace of vulnerability is gone, Dean's tone is tight and gruff.

He hears movement on the other end, Dean getting ready to hang up. "Dean, wait a sec."

No reply, but he can still hear his brother breathing. "Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should go to the hospital."

Dead silence, then one small hitching breath. "Bye, Sam."

The line goes dead, and Sam sits at the table in the growing darkness, until Jessica gets home.

X

They get back to the motel room around 7 o' clock, and Sam heads right for the shower, since he won the rock-paper-scissors battle in the car.

 _It's almost like taking candy from a baby,_ he thinks, smiling to himself.

It had been a cloudy day up until about a half an hour ago, pouring rain for the entire time they were in the woods, and it had ended up being a very muddy tussle with the wood sprites. Just as they had left the woods, the sun had come blazing out, quickly burning away the remains of any clouds.

"Typical," Dean had grouched, standing beside the Impala, covered in dirt and blood in what looked like equal measure.

 _I don't think there's a single inch of me that isn't covered in mud_ , Sam thinks tiredly. The hot water feels so good. _I wish I could stand under it forever,_ he thinks wishfully, but shuts it off as soon as he's clean. There's a very grumpy and tired brother waiting out in the other room, and he is _so not_ going to be impressed if Sam uses up all the hot water.

Plus, he has to take a look at those cuts and scrapes Dean picked up, even though his brother insists they're nothing. Towel slung around his waist, Sam heads out into the main room to grab his bag.

"All yours," he calls, but there's no reply, and after a quick scan, Sam sees the room is empty.

He lets himself panic for all of one second before going to the window and looking out, and there's Dean, sitting on the front of the Impala in the parking lot. Sam huffs out a relieved breath and knocks lightly on the window, raising his eyebrows when Dean looks over.

Dean gives him a half smile and doesn't move, so Sam gets changed quickly and goes out, carefully closing the door behind him.

"Hey. What're you doing?"

Dean is still sitting on the front of the Impala, looking off at the horizon. "Nothing." He shrugs a little in his muddy jacket. "Just looking."

Sam follows his gaze to the brilliant gold and orange sunset, then looks back at his brother in surprise. "You're watching the sun set? Mr. Macho Man? Isn't that a bit chick-flick for you?"

"Yeah well." Dean smiles a little, doesn't look at him.

He doesn't sound quite right, and Sam studies him for a moment, how pale and soft his green eyes are in the fading sun, the smears of blood along his jawline thrown into sharp relief, his hair slowly drying back into sandy blond. There's a sharp, keening ache in his chest suddenly, and he clears his throat.

"You should go shower, Dean, and I should take a look at those cuts –"

"Sam, just –" Dean's voice breaks suddenly, and Sam looks at him so fast he almost hurts his neck.

Dean's still not looking at him, his gaze firmly fixed on the horizon, but there's something new in his face now, something young and afraid and brutally honest.

"What?" Sam's almost afraid to ask.

"I just wanna sit here for a bit, okay? Please?" His tone is determinedly light, but Sam can see through it like glass. The ache in his chest deepens.

"Yeah, okay," he says quickly.

Dean glances at him sideways, his eyes still soft. "Just for a bit, okay? Then you can do whatever."

Sam nods, swallows. "You want me to go?"

"No." Dean says it without hesitation, and Sam half-smiles and perches on the front of the Impala next to him.

They sit there in silence for a long time, the sky slowly turning from gold and orange to pink and purple and red, the air getting steadily cooler, and Dean clears his throat suddenly. "You know what's funny?"

"What?" Sam looks at him, he thinks maybe Dean's eyes are too shiny.

Dean smiles and shakes his head a bit. "You know how many of these things I've seen? Hundreds, right? And honestly I never really thought anything of it, of any of them. It's only now that I know this might be one of the last ones I see that I – that I realize how lucky I was to see all the others." He smiles, but there's no joy behind it.

Sam can't answer. There's a vice around his chest, crushing his lungs into nothing. He always wants to know, begs to be let in on his brother's thoughts, and yet every time Dean gifts him that rare glance into his mind, Sam can't think of one good thing to say in return. In the face of Dean's fear and acceptance of his mortality, all he can do is stare at his brother - his fiercely strong, terrified brother - and say nothing.

A few minutes later, the sun sinks out of sight behind the trees, and Dean clears his throat roughly, stands up.

"Okay. Come on, Sammy, come play nursemaid." He throws a winning smile at Sam, his green eyes determinedly bright, but all Sam can see behind his brother's familiar features is the leering face of death.

X

It's almost funny – almost - that after a whole day and a half of valiantly refusing to admit he's getting sick, carrying on with preparations for the hunt as though it's all fine – but with a sniffle, a squint, and clearly a sore throat – it's a rabbit hole and a broken beer bottle that takes Dean down finally.

They're tramping around in the woods, trying in vain to find a trail or something for the spirit bear, and Sam is really hoping they won't find it seeing as Dean is in no shape to hunt. He's wearing his warmest jacket despite the fact that it's a least 15 degrees and sunny out, he keeps swiping at his nose with his sleeve, and his eyes are all unfocused and glassy.

Oh, and he can't stop sneezing.

Sam sighs loudly as Dean sneezes for at least the tenth time in the past five minutes, and stops walking.

"Dean! That's enough, okay? We don't have to do this today. We should never have come out here. You're clearly not feeling well, and –"

"Sam, I swear, if you don't stop telling me I'm sick, I'm gonna make you sick. I don't know how, but I swear I will. I'm fine. Just - stop." Dean throws a glare back over his shoulder, and then trudges along ahead of him, head held determinedly high.

Sam huffs at his back. "If you'd said that without stopping to sniff in the middle, I might actually be scared."

Dean makes a growling noise that Sam guesses is supposed to sound intimidating, but really just sounds pathetic, and keeps walking. He's not even walking straight anymore, Sam thinks with some amusement. He's kind of leaning to the left, cause his balance is probably off, maybe an inner ear thing or something, and he's just about to say something else when Dean abruptly trips and lands on all fours with a grunt of surprise.

Sam almost laughs, but Dean stays down just a second too long, and it's not funny anymore.

"Dean! You okay?" He jogs the few steps toward his brother, and Dean is slowly sitting back on his heels and _oh crap_. There's blood all over his right hand.

"Oh crap, Sam." This is followed quickly by a thunderous sneeze, and a shiver shakes his brother's whole body.

Sam crouches beside him and grabs Dean's arm, pulling his hand toward him. "Just what I was thinking, Dean."

Dean's hand had come down right on the edge of a broken beer bottle when he fell, thrown here by some partying teenagers or hunters or something, and now there's a gaping bloody slice right across his palm, bleeding quite heavily by this time. Sam doesn't really have that much trouble with blood, but his stomach drops anyway. It looks deep and painful. His brother is staring at it with wide, glassy eyes, his expression somewhere between shock and confusion.

"What the hell did I -?" He's looking around almost comically, as though searching for an invisible assailant.

Sam huffs, pointing as he searches through his pack for a clean rag. "You stepped in a damn rabbit hole, Dean."

"Wha-?" Dean's tired eyes land on the offending thing a second later and he glares, his whole forehead scrunching up. "Damn rabbits."

"Yep, it was their fault, Dean," Sam snaps. He's going from sympathetic to pissed real fast. He finds a rag and yanks it unceremoniously out of his bag, grabbing Dean's hand again as he makes an attempt to look closer at it.

"Stop stretching out your palm, Dean! You're making it bleed more!" He's not sure why he's suddenly so pissed, maybe it's cause he didn't want to do this today anyway and Dean is way too sick to be out here and yet somehow, he'd convinced Sam to come out here anyway, and now he's gone and got himself hurt and now this is gonna mean a whole afternoon at the hospital. Cause it's gonna need stitches, no doubt about it. He doesn't relish waiting in the emergency room for a few hours with a sick, grumpy Dean. "This, this is why we shouldn't have come out today," Sam goes on. "This is gonna need stitches. Give me your hand."

Dean frowns at him, his expression vaguely hurt, but holds out his hand readily enough. "It doesn't need stitches. I'm fine."

He sounds so congested and tired and _wrong_ and normally that would make Sam feel bad, but suddenly he's tired and frustrated and really wishes Dean hadn't been such a stubborn ass about coming out here.

"It _does_ need stitches," he snaps, jerking Dean's hand toward him. "Don't even start."

"Wow, you're grouchy," Dean says, sounding amused, and Sam wraps his hand a little more forcefully than planned, keeping a firm hold on his arm as Dean winces and tries to pull away.

"Stop being a wuss. Yes, I am grouchy, Dean. Because if you had just listened to me for once, and put off this hunt until you weren't choking on your own bodily fluids, we wouldn't be in this mess, alright? But no, you had to be Mr. Macho 'I never get sick' Man, and now we're going to be stuck in the hospital for the next few hours, and that's exactly where I don't want to be right now, Dean, so you might want to just shut up with the smartass comments for _one_ goddamn minute."

Dean flinches as though Sam had hit him, his eyes wide and wounded, and doesn't wince or make one single sound again while Sam finishes with his hand.

Refusing to feel guilty, Sam picks up his bag in angry silence and starts the walk back to the car, and Dean follows him without a word, the only thing breaking the silence his sneezes every few minutes.

He tosses the keys to Sam and gets in the passenger side of the car without arguing even a little, and huddles in his coat miserably, injured hand cradled in his lap. His eyes are lowered, and he doesn't even look at Sam as his brother folds himself into the car.

Sam eyes him for a few seconds, notices he's shivering. "You cold?"

Dean doesn't answer, eyes firmly glued to his feet, and Sam sighs, switching on the heat and pulling off his own jacket. His anger is fading with every second despite his best efforts to keep it in place.

When they get to the hospital, Dean follows him into the building silently, flushed and dejected, and Sam leaves him in one of the chairs while he checks them in. Dean's injury is quickly deemed not that important, and they're added to the waiting list, so Sam goes back over towards his brother, eyeing him on the way. Dean is sunk low in his chair, his jaw tight, and he doesn't look up when Sam sits down next to him with a sigh.

"Could be a while," Sam says. "How's it feel?"

"Fine," Dean replies shortly, doesn't even look at him, and Sam stares at the side of his head for a long moment, then reaches over and grabs his hand from his lap.

"Dude, get off!" Dean sounds pissed, and exhausted, and Sam ignores him, checking that the rag is still tight on his brother's hand and it's not too soaked with blood yet.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, it feels like a kitten is licking it. Yes, it frigging hurts, Sam! What –" Dean's tirade is interrupted by him sneezing explosively, three times in a row, and after the last one he curls over in the chair, bringing his good hand up to press on his forehead, and a small sound – maybe a whimper – sneaks out.

Sam hears it. He looks at Dean for a second, watches the muscles work in his brother's jaw, and then shakes his head with a rueful smile.

"Dean. I'm sorry I yelled at you in the woods, okay? I was just frustrated."

"You were a friggin asshole," Dean growls, glaring at him from under his hand. "I'm not a baby, Sam, I'm –" He starts sneezing again, doesn't bother to try and hide his whimper of pain this time. "My freaking _head_ is gonna explode, Sammy."

"Dean, just chill for a second." Sam is torn between amusement at his brother's ability to argue even when he's feeling terrible, and sympathy at how bad Dean is clearly beginning to feel. "Lean back, just rest your head on something." Sam gently pushes his shoulder, and Dean goes fairly willingly, letting his head drop onto the back of the chair, his breath hitching miserably.

"This blows. Hey, let's just go back to the motel. You can stitch up my hand, okay? Please? I won't even try to elbow you in the gut this time." Dean peeks at him through squinted eyes, hopeful, and Sam smiles at him, amused at his brother's attempt to bribe him.

"Not this one. It's really deep, Dean."

Dean's face falls, Sam swears his chin quivers a bit. "I just wanna sleep," he croaks, frustration and weariness making his voice crack, and Sam pats his chest.

"Just go to sleep then. It's not as if you've never slept in an uncomfortable chair. We're probably gonna be here for a while."

Dean bats away his hand, his eyes shooting death rays, and he's almost pouting. "Get off, dude." He's wilting quickly despite his complaining, illness making him shivery and miserable, and he's quickly getting to that _I'm gonna be impossible just because I don't feel good_ phase.

Sam sighs, looks across the waiting room at a father sitting with his small son, the boy sleeping peacefully against his father's arm.

 _Amazing that a five year old kid is easier to deal with than Dean._

But to his surprise, only a minute later, Dean's feverish head drops against his shoulder, heavy and warm. "Fine. You can be my pillow then," he says grouchily, shifting his body so that he can lean more comfortably on his brother, and Sam, quickly getting over his shock, takes the opportunity to touch the back of his hand to Dean's forehead.

 _Hot, but not too hot._

"Stop," Dean growls, his head getting heavier.

"You stop," Sam replies, rubbing his chest once before picking up Dean's injured hand again, and this time Dean doesn't resist, his hand limp in Sam's.

He doesn't try and pull away at all, only wincing slightly as Sam checks the wound underneath. If anything he's curling closer, because he keeps getting heavier on Sam's shoulder. His furrowed brow is slowly, slowly smoothing out, despite or perhaps because of Sam's gentle ministrations, his breathing getting deeper and more even, and by the time Sam gently sets his hand back down, Dean is completely asleep, his face smooth and relaxed and young.

Sam lets out a relieved breath, sharing an understanding look with the father across the way.

 _Maybe not so difficult after all._

 _x_

 **So yeah... Sam could probably have stitched up Dean's palm no problem... but for the sake of hospital cuddles, Sam's useless today.**

 **Hope you liked! Please leave me a review on your way out and tell me what you thought :)**


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